Florida: It Seemed Like A Good Idea At The Time

Hello hello, my amigos. And guess what?

I am already back in Portland. So much for my "grand adventure."

I don't really know what I was expecting in Florida. Probably sunshine and alligators and streets full of very tan, muscular men who walk around shirtless because of the heat. Or something along those lines.

It didn't take long for me to discover that my destination was a place that looks like Alabama.

I swear I could hear banjo music in the distance...

What was that noise overhead?  Oh, you know, just an alien spacecraft...

Okay, so I've never actually been to Alabama, but I assume that it looks ugly and dead like that.

Everything was flat and covered in a combination of scraggly little trees and grass that needed to be watered.  Billboards promoting fundamental religious beliefs lined the highway.  There was not a single hipster in sight - instead, it seemed that everyone was overweight and attempting to keep their unruly flab inside their tight clothes while drinking a large ice tea from the one Starbucks in town.

It should also be noted that I had to explain to a barista in that one Starbucks how to make me a cup of basic, brewed coffee.  I realize that I'm beginning to sound like a snob, but it was all a bit shocking.

Landing in a household that assumed I was a "liberal, green peace, tree-hugging hippy freak" simply because I asked where the recycling bin was didn't do much for my opinion of Central Florida.  It didn't help that I was obliviously drinking decaf every morning.  Anyway, it wasn't long until I wanted to go home.

In fact, all I could think of was Portland - my friends, my family, decent coffee, trash cans that say "LAND FILL" on them, the quirky night clubs, etc.  So when I got a text asking if I could house-sit in Southeast, I quickly replied "YES" and booked a return flight to the Pacific Northwest. 

It wasn't a worthless adventure - I feel as though I gained a lot of insight on the rest of the country as well as myself and how truly West Coast I am.  I also got to spend a day at the beach, try a lot of weird Latin food (I stayed in a bilingual household), and see Cirque Du Soleil for free (I happened to be in the right place at the right time and some random guy named Ted handed me a ticket he couldn't use...so, so awesome).  So that's all good stuff.

Sticking my feet in The Atlantic Ocean

Hanging out with some seagulls

A bit of beautiful scenery

Embracing the campy side of Orlando

Eating yucca con chicharon (or, those potato-type things with pork skins on top)

I also took advantage of the moderately abysmal scenery and shot a music video when no one was looking.  I only took one take because I wasn't entirely sure where I was and those big black birds were beginning to circle above me (vultures, perhaps?), but I think it turned out okay.

Anyway, it feels incredibly good to be back in the town that still honors the dream of the 90's.

Except I'm not really back in town - I'm staying at my parents' house in the country.  But that's a small detail. 

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(Note:  If you are reading this and you are from Central Florida or anywhere in The South, please do not take offensive to this post.  I do not have anything against you - I've just lived in Portland my entire life and found your Bible Belt shocking.  Take everything I say with a grain of organic kosher salt.)

Take Your Protien Pills And Put Your Helmet On

A week ago, I left the crazy artist's community that I had called home for over a year and I got on an airplane. An airplane full of screaming babies, middle-aged women drinking vodka mixed with sprite zero, and horny teenagers making out right on top of me (I suggested that they take their little in-flight romance to the bathroom but they insisted on swapping saliva in the seats right next to me). I siphoned David Bowie into my ears through headphones, but not even Ziggy Stardust could distract me from the chaos surrounding me.

"This is Major Tom to Ground Control, I'm stepping through the door, and I'm floating in the most peculiar way..."

Some bratty kid kicks the back of my seat while the people next to me proceed to pass second base.

I think of my friends from the artist's community, of my old one-room apartment that was now empty, and of all the stuff I had sitting in boxes at my parents' house. I begin to second guess my choice to move out, but then I tell myself not to think about it. I am on an adventure.

The pilot announces that the plane is going to land. I grab a hold of my barf bag, just in case. Meanwhile, David Bowie continues to sing in my ears.

"Can you hear me Major Tom? CAN YOU HEAR ME MAJOR TOM?"

And in that moment, I felt like I was Major Tom. I was leaving Ground Control and blasting off on some vague personal mission. My destination? A place more foreign and strange than Outer Space...

Central Florida.

A week later, here I am - updating my blog in The Marion County Library. And I have a suspicion that I am not only the sole hipster in this part of the country, but I am the only one who cares about recycling and reusable grocery bags.

Toto, I don't think we're in Portland anymore.

To Be Continued...

And The Madness Begins...

It's a dark and rainy Friday night over here. A couple of people wanted me to go out but I told them I was sick. Which is code for "I am in an emotionally fragile state and prefer to spend the evening watching episodes of 'The Middle' while eating stale pretzels."

Now that I think about it, I may choose to be in that very same emotionally fragile state tomorrow night too and have a quiet yet sophisticated New Year's Eve with myself and a plate of microwaved nachos. I've had several people approach me regarding my plans, but no one has actually invited me anywhere. In fact, people seem like they want me to organize their New Year's plans. And there is no party planned here at the art asylum, but people seem to think there should be one and that I should DJ it. I love being the go-to DJ girl and I'm glad that I have friends want to hang out with me on New Year's, but I just don't have the energy this year to spend hours DJing some drunken year-end bash or be the evening coordinator (and driver) for some over-priced, over-crowded night out.

Truth is, I've gotten myself so stressed out over my upcoming move that I've been socially shutting down over the past few days. My plan wasn't really coming together, so I went for my back-up option and told The Management I need to extend my notice until the beginning of February. They promptly sent me an email informing me that my room had already been rented out and I needed to vacate on the 11th originally planned.

Lesson learned: Don't light a fire under your butt unless you know for sure you can run fast enough.

So what's going to happen?

I'm not entirely sure.

Here's what I do know:

I'm moving my stuff back to my parents' house for right now. I've got a one-way plane ticket to Orlando, Florida. Plane leaves on the 11th. I have an aunt and uncle in Florida that I've seen approximately four times in my life but I remember them as being really nice and they've invited me to stay for awhile.

And after Florida? Location is still TBD.

Of course, I made the mistake of accidentally going public with this whole moving out thing before I was really ready to. I'm getting rid of a lot of stuff, so naturally I put a pile in the hall for people to dig through (keeping up with the tradition of Portland being a friendly free-pile city). I wanted the stuff to actually go away, so I went on Facebook and mentioned the pile on my status.

BAM! Just like that, the world put two-and-two together and began to ask me why, when, and where I am moving.

I realize these are all fair questions. But why is unnecessary, when is scary, and where is just plain unknown. Because I can say I'm going to Florida, but then people want to know what I'm going to do in Florida, if I'm going to move to Florida, am I coming back to Portland, where will I go after that, and do I have a place in mind, and what will become of my rock and roll career, and will I ever get a job or will I just spend my days bumming around the country on free flight vouchers I received after getting bumped from a flight that I didn't pay for to begin with because I was a radio contest winner?

But on top of feeling nervous and frantic, I am really quite excited about all of this. I mean, who knows where this trip is going to take me.

And Florida seems like a great place to start. Mostly because I've never been there, I know people there, and I've had palm trees on the brain ever since I watched Johnny Depp drunkenly stumble around in "The Rum Diary" (it was a mediocre film, but it inspired me to go somewhere warm).

So, bring on the new year. Unlike the Mayans, I have a good feeling about 2012.

Sandwiches Are Beautiful, Sandwiches Are Fiiiiine, I Like Sandwiches, I Eat Them All The Tiiiime...

I used to love the community kitchen, but recently it's become a breeding ground for awkwardness and anxiety. It's also just a general health hazard these days (thank you, sloppy people that smell like hamsters). I've been back on my trusty sandwich diet, throwing in a microwave dinner here and there so I can experience a little variety without actually leaving my room and cooking things.

However, I recently had to perform an ethnic cleansing on the inhabitants of my refrigerator (which is an inappropriate way of saying that three out of four lame items in my fridge were out-dated/stinky so I decided that the fourth item was guilty by association and threw everything away). I fully intended to go to the store in attempts to rebuild the food community in the fridge, but I put it off because grocery shopping really isn't that fun. And when dinnertime rolled around, I decided to get over my recent anti-social tendencies and brave the kitchen with a box of noodles.

It was okay at first. The Poet was in there drinking coffee and it was just like the old days. But just when I made myself comfortable and put a pot of pasta on the stove, Creepy Niles Crane entered the scene.

I'm not sure if I've ever talked about Creepy Niles Crane before. The best way I know how to describe him is this: He looks exactly like Niles Crane from the show "Frasier" but acts like a character that belongs in a Kafka novel. He's weirdly intense and something about him always makes me nervous. Maybe it's the fact that he's so open about his interest in sadomasochism, or the way his eyes light up when he talks about watching lions tear their prey apart in animal documentaries. He's also the guy with the infamous bed bug problem. *shudder*

As a side note, I definitely heard him hit on a girl once by asking if she wanted to come over to his place and have a look at his bed bugs. This poor girl simply stared at him and said, "Do you really think that line is going to work on ANYONE?"

Anyway, Creepy Niles Crane comes in, throws his coat on a chair, and sits down with a heavy sigh. I stir my pasta, hoping that prodding the noodles with a spoon will make them cook faster.

"Do you know a reliable brand of throat antiseptic?" Creepy Niles Crane asks, a very matter-of-fact tone in his voice.

The Poet and I look at each other.

"A reliable brand of what?"

"Throat antiseptic," he says. "You know, to make your throat go numb. I want one that works really well."

There's an awkward pause.

"It's for a friend. A sick friend. Sore throat," he says quickly.

I continue to stir my pasta and tell him to just get some cough drops.

At this point, Silent Black Man walks in with a sack of potatoes.

I don't really know the full story on Silent Black Man. I know he doesn't actually live here. I think someone picked him up at Occupy Portland. I'm not really sure where he's sleeping, but I know he's staying here somewhere.

The best part? He doesn't speak English. So NO ONE really knows what's up with him.

And when he walked into the kitchen with a sack of potatoes and grabbed a giant knife, I nearly jumped out of my skin.*

Of course, he was just using this knife to chop the potatoes, but the way he held it was slightly unnerving.

Meanwhile, Creepy Niles Crane was busy reflecting on his lack of success with women.

The Poet: "Was it just me, or did I hear you ask a girl to come back to your place and look at your bed bugs?"
Creepy Niles Crane: "Yeah... It didn't work... I think I need to work on my approach. I think how I said that wasn't quite right..."
The Poet: "You think???"

Creepy Niles Crane went on to talk about his bed bug problem in detail and I immediately felt itchy all over. Silent Black Man continued to chop potatoes in a corner. I decided that my noodles were done and was dismayed to find that all of the plates were dirty.

I looked for a fork and decided to just eat out of the pan. Or maybe I would just put the entire thing in tupperware and take it back to my room... Except that The Chef had made a point out of throwing out any and all tupperware once upon a time. I casually searched for a take-home vehicle of some sort. Meanwhile, Creepy Niles Crane starting going all philosophical.

"Time," he said ominously. "Time moves so fast. Time."

Everyone in the room nodded in agreement. But he wasn't done being on a soapbox.

"Sometimes, I think I could spend my entire life thinking about getting out of this chair and then I would die in this chair."

No one in the room knew how to respond to that.

So I casually scooped up my pan full of noodles and made a less-than-graceful exit.

"Good luck getting out of the chair," I said.

This is a mad house, I thought to myself as I made my way back to my room. This is a retirement home for hipsters and lunatics. HOW DID I GET HERE? THIS IS NOT MY BEAUTIFUL HOUSE. THIS IS NOT MY BEAUTIFUL WIFE.

I then realized that I too am guilty of living my life as though I'm sitting in a chair I don't know how to get out of. And I don't know what my story is going to be about, but I don't think it's supposed to be about a girl who spends her life eating sandwiches on 82nd Avenue while waiting for something more interesting to happen. It's definitely time to get a better grip on things and make stuff happen.

In the meantime, I can at least go to the grocery store and stock up on lunch meat.


*Please know that I would have been just as spooked if he was a Silent White Man or a Silent Asian Dude.

Something Fun That's Going On Today...

So I've gotten involved in a contest on YouNow and I'll be going up against 8 talented musicians today at 6pm Eastern Standard Time. I'll be broadcasting a live performance from my apartment, which is pretty exciting. If I'm in the top three, I move on to the next round of the competition.

I hate to shamelessly self-promote on here, but I would love to see some of your friendly little avatar faces in the virtual audience. Using the site is really easy - you can just log in with your Facebook account and then you are free to vote/comment on anything.

It should be a pretty good show. Looks like I'm up against the following people:

- Guy that sounds like Johnny Cash
- Guy who sings like he's in Creed
- Blonde chick who plays piano
- Guy with cool stage name
- Chick with bubbly personality
- Guy with guitar and beard
- Boy who loves boy bands
- Guy I'm FB friends with but don't actually know

I expect the competition to be fierce. I also expect it to be totally entertaining.

Hop over to YouNow.com in a couple hours and check it out? :D

Here's To Awkward Transition Times...

So the countdown has begun. 26 days until I move on to my next adventure.

I think I would be more excited if I knew what that meant. But the truth is, I don't know what that means. I have no plan. I have about a dozen half-baked ideas and a couple fairly undesirable back-up options, but no real concrete plan.

I've been thinking so much over the past few days that I've probably given my brain a rash. It's gone past the point of productive thinking and has reached into the realm of anxiety-driven thought loops. I know I need to knock that off. Because as overwhelming as the future often seems, it's only going to get worse if I paralyze myself with stress.

I keep saying I want to leave this town and it seems like it's time. I mean, I almost punched a hipster at a vintage clothing store the other day. If that doesn't mean it's time to leave Portland, I don't know what does.

The good news is that I still have those vouchers for Southwest Airlines that I received for getting bumped in February. And they'll be expiring soon, so I really should use them. I don't even really know where I want to go, I just know I want to go somewhere. I watch the bargain flights everyday. I should probably just book one and go, go, go.

...And do what when I get there?

I can hear the phone conversation now...

Me: "Hi Mom, I'm in Saint Louis..."
My Mother: "What are you doing in Saint Louis???"
Me: "I'm not really sure, but I got a last minute bargain deal on the flight and I think on the way back I might get bumped!!!"

I sometimes wish that life came with road maps...

Heavy Stuff...

Today, I've been going back and forth between feeling completely optimistic about the future and feeling as though I'm going to throw up from anxiety. Right now, I'm leaning towards the latter of those two feelings. The level of nervousness I'm currently experiencing is probably totally unnecessary and logically I know this, but the future is a very unknown place and my move-out date will be here in a month. Somebody get me a barf bucket, please.

I'm also still heavily processing something scary that happened a couple of nights ago. I told myself I wasn't going to write about it because I don't want to dwell on it, but my mind keeps pressing the replay button on the mental video tapes. It's a lot heavier than the sort of stuff I normally blog about, but I think it's probably important to get it out of my head. So here it is...

I went to bed early on Saturday night and woke up to my phone ringing at two in the morning. By the time I was awake enough to look at my phone, I had a voicemail from The Fonz. I figured he was probably drunk dialing me or something, but when I listened to the message I was shocked by the urgency in his voice.

One of our friends was going to kill himself.

I heard voices in the hallway, so I threw on some sweatpants and poked my head out of my door to see what was up.

It was one of the two guys we lovingly refer to as "The Gnomes." We all knew he was having a rough time, but we just assumed he would get through it. But late that night, he posted a Facebook status that was obviously a suicide note and disappeared. He texted his roommate (The Other Gnome) to announce that he was not going to come back.

The Fonz had called because he needed to borrow my car. The Other Gnome had a wild hunch of where this guy might be and they were on a mission to go find him. They ended up borrowing someone else's car because I didn't answer the phone. But while they were out driving around, The Fonz called me again to tell me to look downstairs.

"Now we think he gave us a false lead and he's actually somewhere in the building," The Fonz said frantically into the phone. "Can you go check the weird bathroom in the basement and see if he's in there?"

I called The Poet and told him to check downstairs. I was not about to go creeping around the basement of this spooky building in search of my friend who might very possibly be dead. So The Poet went on a mission to check every hidden corner of the building and I had nothing to do but pace back and forth in my room.

I held my phone in my hand and waited for news. I checked my friend's Facebook page, read his suicide note, and swore silently to myself. It seemed hopeless. He had made up his mind and now he was dead somewhere. My friend was dead.

The minutes seemed to last forever as I waited for the phone to ring. I had to do something, so I made a sandwich. I wasn't even hungry, but I needed to do something with my hands. So I sliced up some cheese and prepared my brain for the inevitable bad news. My friend was dead. I ran a mental slideshow of memories through my brain...

The night in the kitchen when I met Gnome for the first time...

The time we sat cross-legged in the hallway together and ate pizza during and art opening...

The ironic Mary and Jesus shirt he wore all of the time just to be weird...

The night he drunkenly stole the fire hose sign from outside my door and yelled "We're all going to hell...in a hand basket, bitch..."

The way he always won at pool by hiding his opponent's balls in the pocket of his sweatshirt and tossing them in the holes when no one was looking...

The times he made me laugh so hard I nearly cried...

The constant piano playing...

The suit he wore specifically for my birthday party...

The time we had a jam session in the courtyard and it was a disaster because he can't really play guitar and I can't really play accordion...

The spiked iced tea he made for everyone, which turned out to just be straight vodka that was flavored to taste like iced tea...

The night he told me that I had the power of rock and roll...

I mechanically placed some deli meat on my sandwich and looked at my phone again. Nothing. I was frustrated that there wasn't anything I could do to help. And I was horrified at the fact that one of the most talented, funny, and brilliant people I know was miserable enough to kill himself.

I then realized that I never told him how talented, funny, and brilliant he was. This was equally horrifying.

There was a knock on the door. It was The Poet checking to see if I had heard anything new. He had found nothing in the basement. I reported that I didn't know anything and offered him half of my sandwich. So we sat on my floor and nervously ate sandwiches, waiting for news.

Suddenly, there were loud voices in the hallway. People running and yelling "HE'S HERE!" The Poet went out to catch the action but I stayed in my room. I didn't want to find my friend's dead body. I just don't know how to deal with that.

Fortunately, he was alive.

He was in the bathtub room, lying in a sleeping bag inside the bathtub. He had a backpack with him. Someone grabbed it and found three knives inside. They called the police.

The good news is that he made it to the hospital. And he's still alive. I am so thankful that he chose NOT to do it.

But I still found the whole thing unsettling. And the next night, when I found myself at a bowling alley with my gay best friend from high school and a bunch of people I didn't know, I discovered that being normal took a conscious effort. Like, "I'm just going to smile and not act like I was up all night thinking my friend/neighbor was dead."

No one likes to talk about death, especially suicide. But I'm here to say that people probably should talk about it...

Really I wish I could just write one song that would make people stop wanting to kill themselves.

Fun New Facts

Last night was a rough night at the artist's community. I might write about it tomorrow or I might just move on and be thankful that no one is dead. I am exhausted right now, but I can report the following facts:

I gave my notice today. I am moving out on January 11th.

I don't know exactly where I'm going on January 11th. I just know that I can't stay here.

The fundraiser I mentioned in my last post was miraculously successful and we raised enough money as a community to save our two friends from being evicted. I am in awe of the final score...
Human Kindness: 2
Eviction: 0

I also learned tonight that sometimes, when things seem overwhelming and complicated, being a gay man's date to a Christmas party at a bowling alley is the best thing you can do for your mental health.

More coherent thoughts later. It's bed time for Lauren.

Peace and love.

Tis The Season...

Two of my friends are being evicted because they can't pay their rent.

They both recently found out that they have to leave tomorrow. One just got fired from his job because his boss didn't like him. The other had a miscommunication with his publishing company and discovered that the money he was counting on from his new book won't be in his hands until February.

My heart breaks for both of them. The one guy is such a caring, generous person and the other guy is easily the smartest man I know. I hate that this is happening to them. The genius guy has enough friends in town that he can couch surf for awhile, but the other guy just moved here and is currently freaking out in his room because he doesn't know where he will go.

It's sick. I hate the way the world is set up sometimes. I mean, if someone has to get evicted, it should be the scary drug addict, the guy who has bed bugs, or the lady who's stench is causing local gas mask sales to escalate. It shouldn't be the prolific writer and the guy who's been known to give his last $5 away to people eating mayonnaise sandwiches in the kitchen. That just doesn't make sense.

Of course, the whole community is trying to throw together a last minute pile of money to save these guys. But most of us here are barely able to pay our own rent. It's unlikely we'll be able to properly save both of them.

Such a stupid time of year for this sort of thing to happen, too. Merry Christmas...Here, have an eviction notice! P.S: It's 30something degrees out there, bring a coat!

It's all upsetting. I know things like this happen everyday, but it's not supposed to happen to people that I actually like.

Untitled

Sitting in my old room at my parents' house, I wonder where that magic eight-ball is that used to sit on my shelf.

Actually, it was a date-ball. Pink and everything. Totally cool in middle school and too campy to get rid of after that. I'm not sure where it is tonight though. I'd like to ask it a few questions. I'd ask it what I'm supposed to be doing with my life, then remember it only takes "yes" or "no" questions and rephrase that. I would say, "Oh Magic Date Ball, am I going in the right direction?" And I would shake it a little too much and barely be able to read "NO CLUE" through all of the glitter.

Maybe it's a good thing it's not just right there on the shelf anymore. It was never very insightful.